The Call of Fury
by scarletstrong
Summary: They slaughtered her family. They tortured her beyond anything she had ever known. They underestimated her race, until she awakened a power so fierce it shook the Wizarding world to the core. This isn't a wizard's tale, this is the story of a muggle's quest for vengeance and what that will mean for a certain emerald eyed boy. OC centric no pairing. Revenge story. Rated for Violence
1. Prologue

**Edited Nov 23, 2014.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, J.K.R. Rowling does, but Ruby is all mine. Cue evil laughter.**

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Prologue

The Call of Fury

I can still remember the wonder and absolute excitement I felt that day. It was before the carnage, before the desire for revenge saturated my senses, before I understood what it meant to be ripped apart by an agony so bitter, it withers the soul, before I knew about the cursed existence of magic, before the Death Eaters.

_May 31, 1980_

My eyes widened as they took in the sight. They were filled with a kind of awe and wonder only one who sees the ocean for the first time can display. The sun shone warm and lazy in the California sky as if jubilant at the promise of the beginning of summer. It kissed my lily-white skin with a fiery touch.

There I sat on a beach towel, in a regular one piece lavender swimsuit. The wind whispered sweet nothings as it blew through my shoulder length, auburn hair. In a word, it was absolute paradise. The taste of salt in the air almost intoxicated me. I couldn't drink it in enough. It was as if I had never truly breathed until that moment. The ocean sparkled a deep cerulean blue that dazzled the world. The sky was alive with the squalls of seagulls and it spread out into infinity.

Fervently, I prayed that this was not another medication induced hallucination.

As Ruby Irene Williams—16 year old, book-worm, loner, and comic book geek extraordinaire,—I never felt so overjoyed and thankful of my life as I did then. For the first time in ten years, I was free from the dreaded "C" word, otherwise known as cancer. Suddenly, reality solidified and I knew that there would no longer be any aggressive radiation and chemotherapy treatments. No more losing my hair, losing my composure, losing my mind, or whatever other tortures the doctors threw my way.

I knew what it meant to live and a gratitude erupted within my soul I have not felt since. This I recognized, implicitly, as a golden moment in my life. If I could have frozen time and lived there forever, I would have done so without hesitation. Tears slipped from my ice blue eyes and danced joyfully down my face in reckless abandon. I wondered if it was possible to die from such happiness.

The sight of the ocean meant more than sightseeing to me, some might even dare to call it an obsession (my younger sister Dianna for instance.) Beyond, or in spite of, what jealous idiots may think (cough*Dianna*cough,) it, to me, was a symbol of freedom and quiet strength. Whenever I looked at a painting of the sea, determination flooded my soul and I did not doubt that I would live to lay my eyes on it. Every time I faced the fear of death, every time I needed a reason to fight (but my fatigued body had nothing left to fight with), every time my hands clenched into fists and shook, the knuckles white with the pain of my treatments, I would think about that watery blue haven. Then strength welled up and I had the power to overcome anything.

Of course my dream wasn't just to see the ocean, that was only part of it. It is not just about where you travel that makes the best trips, but who you travel with. I wanted my family with me.

Mom, Denise Williams, gently squeezed my thin hand. She understood how important this had been for me. We looked at the ocean quietly for a few minutes. The silence was broken when a group of surfer boys popped out of nowhere. With a mischievous look I had seldom seen in Mom's eyes, she calmly said the most ridiculous thing, "Rubes see those hot beach boys." I nodded in confusion. She continued," You should let out your inner hormonal teenager and flirt it up."

I nearly choked on a Tic Tac.

Mom had started to pressure me to begin the whole "girly, salivate over boys, stage" but I just didn't see any point to romance. I had already dealt with enough drama with my health problems. Why add love and teenage, relationship angst into the equation? Nope, not gonna happen. "Tranquility" was my chosen catchphrase at this point.

My first response was incredulity. I mean, seriously, I wasn't a normal flirty teenager. The very idea made me snort. Disbelief clouded my face. I couldn't believe my mom said "hot." The word "eww" came to mind, but the thing I loved the most about my mom was that she always knew how to make me laugh. This gave me the perfect opportunity to have one of our famous banter sessions, so I chuckled then said, "You old cougar."

"What did you say?" Mom said as her eyebrow twitched.

"Ahh losing your hearing too. You know first it's the hearing, then, your brain shrivels in senility" I smiled cockily at her. "You Mom are 'old' and a 'woman,' who just happens to be checking out a much younger man. That qualifies as being a 'cougar'."

Mom's face turned an interesting shade of red. "Ruby Irene Williams! I'm not an old cougar nor do I have any eyes for anyone." She huffed and said, "Besides if I'm doing any checking out it is for you! I would have to be blind to not notice a male that good-looking. I'm simply being a thoughtful mother by encouraging you to get some, dating experience."

I scoffed and raised an eyebrow, which was a favorite Vulcan imitation of mine that Mom hated. "Come on mom I mean I think it is obvious that this," I pointed to my skinny bordering of skeletal, plain self "and that," I pointed to the blonde Jr. Model, "is not going to happen." Mom got a sad look in her eye at what she perceived as lack of confidence, so I hurried on, "And besides if you are so interested, go flirt it up yourself and leave me out of it. Not that they would be interested in cougars," I snickered then hurled over with laughter as her face blazed.

In hindsight, I can see that, that was not the wisest course of action to take. Underneath my mother's petite, slender, 5"3 frame, beat the heart of an intensely proud woman. A woman with a known mean streak when properly pissed. In my defense, I think I might have been high on life at this point.

My laughter stopped when I felt an eerie sense of doom. Then, like a horror movie in slow motion, I watched as Mom got up gracefully and walked over to the blond-haired Adonis. I couldn't hear what she said but I could tell she asked for his number and flirted for me! And, horror of horrors, pointed her finger in my direction!

I have a P.T.S.D flash back to elementary when Mom asked some random kids to be my friend. It was "for my own good," at least that was how Mom justified it. Who would have thought they were the most popular kids at the time. It honestly had been the worst year ever. Because of her, I got blacklisted for being so pathetic my mom had to make friends for me. If that counted as pathetic, this was astronomically worse. My face could only be described as murderous mixed with appalled, not a pleasant look. She returned with a crinkled white paper with a phone number on it.

I sputtered and pointed the finger of shame. "How could you flirt with some beach dude? Your old, and you have Dad, and did I mention you're old."

She just laughed and said "First off, I did not 'flirt' I merely pointed out all your good attributes. Secondly, even if I did, just as young lions learn to hunt for meat from their mothers through observation, so too should you learn to flirt from me."

The realization that my mom—a woman twenty years older—was better when she picked up men for me, than I was for myself, paralyzed me. It seemed shame and mortification went by the name of "Ruby."

Mom sighed. "Rubes I want you to enjoy life and some of the best and worst parts of it happen because people are willing to risk themselves and make mistakes. To really live means going outside of our comfort zones. Up until this point all you have focused on is survival, but there is more to life than surviving. I want you to live, to live to flirt, to laugh, to love and, I want you to try to do this with that boy."

Just as young, blonde, and hunky started to make his way over in my direction, he froze as a dark aura suddenly enveloped the beach. Not surprisingly it came from the general direction of my father, who returned with the beach umbrella. My dad William grumbled about the crowds on the beach. He glared at said Adonis until the blond got the picture and took his surf board into safer waters. I couldn't really blame the guy because at 6"3 my dad cut a pretty intimidating figure. Being a Police Officer probably brings up the intimidation factor considerably.

For all his grumps, complaints, and threats towards the boys, I had never seen Dad so relaxed. The stiffness in his body language disappeared. I had a feeling that he was even happier than myself at that time. And even as embarrassing and brazen as my mom could be—and I still haven't forgiven her for picking up a guy for me—I'd been so glad she was there to fight with. Lulled by the sun I couldn't help but feel a little nostalgic. It was easy to remember all the times when Mom's words of encouragement and utter confidence lifted me out of my doubts. Or when she joked and made me laugh when all I thought I had left were tears.

Then there was dad. Although a man of few words, I never felt safer than when I was with him. He may have been a giant but there was no man gentler than him. To say he was protective is not enough. He had been my strongest defender. Quietly, he patted my shoulder and I could feel every callus in his work worn hands, it reminded me of the silent comfort he gave me over the years. One time in particular stood out.

When I first lost all my hair at twelve, I went to school after many weeks of absences. Things went alright until lunch. It happened in front of everyone in the cafeteria. Calls of "freak" rang though the air. Worst of all was being laughed at by a boy I liked. I didn't want to face my parents so I stayed in the tree house my father build for me. I was so humiliated and heartbroken. Then, I got it into my mind that I might be an embarrassment to my family and shouldn't show my face in public.

Well, the tree house might not have been the smartest hiding place, but then again dad seemed to have a sixth sense about me when I needed him. So, while he gently held me in his arms, the story stumbled out between sobs. He rubbed circles on my back. When I had quieted down some, I asked him if he was ashamed of me. Before I had even finished the sentence, Dad did something I would not forget.

He grabbed my chin, looked into my eyes, and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was beautiful even without hair. Dad ranted about how it would take an idiot not to see it. He said that I made him proud as a daughter because of how my inner beauty matched my outer beauty. Last of all, he declared that one day I would find someone to love, but that I didn't need a man or a boyfriend to validate my worth.

I believed in him, even though I didn't always believe in myself, because I knew Dad didn't give compliments, only facts. He was my rock.

After all these memories ran through my mind, I couldn't help but feel that I would never deserve the amount of love and support my parents had given to me. I made a promise that deserving of it or not, nothing would stop me from living the rest of my life trying to. At the moment, nothing could bring me down. Unfortunately, if there is one law of the universe that is irrevocable, it is that all good things must come to an end.

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	2. Shattered

Hope everyone likes this new chapter. Read and review please.

Special thanks to my beta, VivyPotter, who is a lifesaver.

Edited Nov 23, 2014

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Chapter One

Shattered

_England_

_September 15, 1980_

The smell of sweat, and other interesting things, permeates my room on the first floor of the Sunnybrook Psychiatric Facility in London. My hair feels itchy at the nape of my neck, and the strands stick together in damp clumps. It's to be expected, especially as my hair hasn't been brushed properly in a week. The cotton sheets were changed five days ago, but they're stale now. With the higher-ups understaffing the facility, I really can't blame them. Most of the Aides find caring for me difficult, mainly because of my age and unresponsiveness. They don't see me as a person, only a patient in the grips of Catatonic Depression.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing will ever matter again.

I wonder idly who my Health Care Assistant will be today. Will it be Muriel, a lovably pudgy, older woman, who smells like confectionery and chatters about everything? Or, will it be the nineteen year old college student, who chews neon pink, bubblegum? Pushing the curiosity aside, I label it unimportant. It's not like I can respond to either one of them. I guess being catatonic can have a silver lining that way. After all, who in their right mind would willingly tell their story if it was like mine? Oh, I better not ask, considering the fact that no one is in their "right mind" here.

In the recreation room, I can hear a party. "Unchained Melody" is playing. A balloon pops… and then it starts. First, the flashes of green, then comes the sounds of my seven-year old sister's cries. Each memory flays another piece of my heart into crimson ribbons and I die a little more on the inside. The only response this body makes is my eyes begin to dilate. Silently, I scream and scream as my mind sucks itself back to the scene of my nightmares. Where it all ended, and where my agony began.

_California._

_May 31, 1980_

Dad had pushed Dianne out of her self-exiled stint of non-stop "Pac-Man" and we all ate on the beach. The picnic lunch—which Dad put together, because the results of Mom's skills as a cook could definitely be labeled "Hazardous Waste"—was a hit. Mom grumbled about not being able to help, but we all knew where those kinds of thoughts led: a one way ticket to listen to the choirs of Heaven. This was proven by our cat Spoof, who tragically died after he foolishly ate one of Mom's biscuits.

Let's not go into how all his fur fell out and his last agonized mews.

Poor Spoof.

After lunch, everyone left me to my ocean. A few hours later Mom walked over to my fashionably sunburned self.

"Come on babe, it's time to go back. You've been out here all day. I'm surprised you haven't turned into a prune with all the swimming you've done."

Sadly, I slowly emerged from the water and toweled my hair dry. A wicked idea crossed my mind and I grinned, squinted my eyes, and said, "Mom, remember when you joked that I should start to behave like a 'normal' teenager, not some old Grandma?"

Mom scrunched up her eyebrows.

"Yeah, what about it?"

An impish smile sailed smoothly over my face as I said, "I think I've found my inner rebellious teenager." Without any more warning, I grabbed a discarded sand bucket and threw the wet sandy contents over Mom's head, ruining her white tee-shirt.

There were a few seconds of silence. Then Mom, with precise, determined movements, wiped the sandy mud off of her face. She looked up, her chin raised in challenge. I dissolved into helpless giggles and ran into the water with a shout of, "You'll never take me alive!"

After the sun began to set, and an hour of fruitless attempts to catch me, Mom finally convinced me to go back to our rented beach house. It was only about a hundred yards away. And by "convinced me," I meant that she called out the big guns. She _dared_ to use Daddy against me. He threw me over his shoulder and hightailed it to the beach house. I screeched "Kidnapping!" while I spanked his rear end in protest.

He dumped me next to Dianne on the couch who shouted "Hey!" She gave me what she thought was an "intimidating" look, but it only served to make her brunette, pig-tailed self, seem pouty. "Dad, don't just throw any kind of trash next to me!" Even if her words were rude, the amusement in her tone told a different story.

My face flushed because of all the laughter of my impromptu kidnapping and I was thoroughly drenched as well, thanks to Mom's revenge. I pointedly ignored Dianne until she once again became immersed in the wonders of "Pac-Man." Our parents bought her the first Atari game console and she was hooked. The moment was perfect for a sneak attack and I proceeded to tickle her senseless. A warm emotion filled my heart as we rough-housed. Dianne and I hadn't been able to bond like normal siblings due to my lengthy hospital stays, but I vowed that would soon change. I'd make the effort to get to know her better.

It happened a few hours later. A strange buzz began to flutter on the edge of my awareness, like when the inner ear hasn't popped yet. This bizarre kind of static electricity filled the air and drizzled over my skin, something in my body rose against it and left me slightly numb. Oddly, the feeling disappeared as fast as it came. Then the atmosphere became heavy, the lights flickered out, and all the electronics burst into showers of sparks and small explosions.

Five pops sounded. Men, who wore black cloaks that seemed to suck up the light around them, casually invaded our home. Their masks reminded me of Jason's mask in "Friday the Thirteenth." Everything happened so fast. Dad yelled for us to run as he cocked his hidden police pistol. The moonlight filtered through the sunroof, which allowed me and Dianne to watch in horror. We huddled together behind the love seat as they pointed strange sticks at him and he went down before he could even let off a shot. Mom grabbed a frying pan and managed to knock one unconscious before they got her too.

I picked up Dianne and ran towards the open bay window. The door was too far away and the window was our only option. We nearly reached it, only to be stopped and somehow thrown into a wall by an unseen force. My skull made impact with a loud crunch. Before I became completely unconscious, something tugged hard on my navel and I knew no more.

Three days later, I was found in England among the burnt ruins of ten square blocks, unburned, no identification, unresponsive and staked to the ground with metal posts through my hands and feet. Everything had been utterly destroyed. My physical pain couldn't even compare to the mental trauma I bore. I could only repeat in my mind, "All for me" or "My fault."

There really wasn't much point in speech then _or_ now. What could I say that the Police would believe? How could I make them understand, when I didn't even understand it myself?


	3. The Awakening

Sorry about the mix up with uploading the new chapter. I must have clicked the prologue by accident. Especially thanks to my first reviewer who pointed it out to me. I wouldn't have known otherwise. And as always I am grateful to my Beta who makes my writing better.

Edited Nov 23, 2014

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Chapter Two

The Awakening

_London_

_September 15, 1980_

The sounds of practical rubber shoes squeak with each step. Health Care Assistant roulette is over and the winner is…

Muriel comes bustling into the room. "Hello love, you're looking…" She pauses when she realizes that what I look like isn't compliment worthy in _any_ way, "As well as can be expected." Her voice slightly wavers in dissatisfaction. I can see that it isn't with me, but with my previous caretakers.

"Let's see about your lovely hair, shall we?"

Her hands are gentle as they tug and arrange. It's our routine; she brushes my hair and braids it in a way I think is childish, she talks and I remain silent. Things continue on in this same vein for a while.

_Several hours later_

I face the window, the sky is awhirl with light and soft colors but I don't see them. Something is different. Muriel's actions puzzle me, so full of caring for someone who is nothing but a broken shell. The older woman is always able to chase the shadows of my past away. The easy way out would be to let her break down my walls.

Today I feel especially weak and I think "_she only has to say one more kind thing and, if I don't fight it, I will start to care for her like an Aunt. Mom would have…_"

"_No, no, no. Can't think about anymore would, should, or coulds_."

My mind understands that nothing can bring them back, but my heart won't let them go. If my pain lessens even a bit, if I come out of these living nightmares, then it means everything I've been through aren't dreams, delusions, or hallucinations. It means that my family is really gone and I am alone.

So, I sear their last moments into my mind, repeat them like a broken record, and imprison myself by the fierceness of my guilt. Most people would shy away from their flashbacks, I embrace mine. I don't deserve to look back on my happy memories or find comfort in the past. Since I can't die, this will be my penance.

Probably, the cruelest fate in the universe is to wish for death, yet have no ability to realize that wish. All I can think is, "_maybe the masked ones will realize their mistake and finally put me out of my misery._"

Muriel comes back, repositions me, finishes changing the sheets, and swabs my dry mouth. All the while, she speaks with soft tones, and the corners of her lips crinkle in a smile that lights her up from inside out. She checks my IV and N.G. Tube along with the sludge they use to keep me among the living.

"I'm sorry that I have not been able to check on you much." Her hand cups my cheek and I try to stop myself from drawing any kind of relief from it. An ache builds in my chest, and for a second the walls begin to crumble. Almost I give in, until I build them back up.

"_I am a void,_" I think this monotonously and repeat it until all recollections, feelings, and deeper thoughts are no more. "_Don't talk, don't feel, and don't yearn for love. The goal is to be a statue, ignore everything and everyone else. Just mindlessly count the dots on the white ceiling. Sing, idiotically repetitive songs like, 'I am Henry the eighth I am'."_

"_It doesn't matter that Muriel's babbling reminds me of Mo… No, no, no! She isn't Mom and never will be. Mustn't think, mustn't feel_."

A tired voice breaks through my frantic thoughts. Muriel sits down and holds my hand, forcing me to redouble my efforts at distancing myself. "Only a few more moments and I will get off my shift."

Lyrics begin to whisper in my mind.

_"I'm Henry the eighth I am"_

"The other Aides may look and only see a broken shell, yet when it comes to you I can see better than all of them."

_"Henry the eighth I am, I am_!" My thoughts become louder.

She moves my head so that our faces are level, forcing me to look into her sincere pale blue eyes and Muriel continues, "I see a girl in great pain, but underneath all that is a spark of strength. I see a girl who reminds me of my daughter, fiercely independent, who shoulders every burden alone and despite all this, a girl who is like family to me."

_"I just married the widow next door_." It's hard to focus on drowning her out.

"Remember when I said I needed to have my eyes examined three months ago? This will be my last shift, I'm quitting because my eyes are degenerating faster than expected."

The cavity of my heart compresses at this realization. She would leave and never return.

_SHE'S BEEN MARRIED SEVEN TIMES BEFORE_! The words thunder inside my head. Anything I can do to lock the weakness away, to avoid succumbing to the temptation to take her kindness, to accept any shred of affection.

Everything begins to compound into one moment.

There's an air of expectancy, as if she knows how close I am to breaking.

Muriel starts to leave sighing. What a world of things she expresses with those sighs, like how she wishes I would get better, sympathy for a girl stuck in her own mind, but most of all: the message "don't give in."

Hands on the door, she says softly to herself, "Oh, little lamb, what did those wizards do to you?"

The music ends.

With that one sentence, she unleashes a hurricane within my mind, "_She knows, she knows about them! If she knows then that means that they are real. If they're real, it means they're still out there, free and happy. If Muriel knows about _them_, maybe someone in authority knows too. Maybe, maybe there are people out there who can give my family justice. Maybe those _things_ aren't invincible, even with all the impossible things they can do_." Desperate need for justice battles against the denial that none of it happened.

Muriel starts to open the door. It's now or never. Time to speak up. Rapidly my breathing skyrockets. I try to open my mouth but nothing happens. "_Did I lock myself up too tightly? Am I failing my family again?_" Seconds pass like eternities.

Nothing happens. I try and try, yet still nothing.

Internally I slump, "_Why fight when nothing I do can bring them back_?"

A whispery memory fills my mind of brunette pigtails, agonized screams, dead accusing eyes, and of mocking laughter.

It's the laughter that shatters something in me. For the first time since I had found my family reduced to ash, I feel something beyond crippling grief or guilt.

Oily hatred slides through my veins, coating my soul with a fire even Hades himself would fear.

I couldn't protect the ones I loved, but if there was a means to make those monsters pay for what they did, then nothing would stop me from achieving it. I sneer at myself for not thinking of this sooner.

"Muriel," I say, my voice cracking from disuse.

Her back stiffens and she slowly turns around. Just like that, it's as if the floodgates open. All this time I'd been dampening my inner emotions and senses. Waking up, becoming fully aware, is like taking sandpaper and tearing off all the epidermis of the skin. Leaving me, painfully, knowledgeable about how it feels to have every nerve naked to the environment.

"The men in the black cloaks…" Before I can even finish the sentence, she's holding me and patting my back just like Dad used to. We both seem to know if I stop, I'll never be able to do this again.

"They said, they said… we were no better than cattle. They, they, they… took my family and me. When, when I woke up, we were in a basement."

I don't even notice as the tears begin to fall, or how my eyes become hollow.

"They, took our clothes, even Dianna's, and said that muggle women were just brood mares."

"The snake man, they called him the Dark something, He, he..." Bile rises in the back of my throat. "He said they could do whatever they wanted."

"Dad tried to fight them but they pointed their sticks. He screamed and screamed. There was a green flash and he stopped."

"They laughed and said he shouldn't have fought so hard and it was the height of arrogance to think that any of them would rut with pigs. They found it hilarious that his last thoughts were of not being able to protect his wife and daughters from a rape that would never happen."

"The snake-like man said they were to let me watch what was done to my family."

"They made metal stakes out of thin air and pinned me to ground." I rub the scars on my hands and feet. "The snake man kept hurting Mom, no matter how much I begged. He said it was an honor for them to be tortured by him."

My body is quivering all over.

"Then he stopped, ordered everyone out of the room, and came over to me.

"He, said, he said that he was capable of mercy and the mercy he would show would be allowing me to know why everything happened. He told me that we were related. I was the child his muggle half-sister given up for adoption before he killed her like he did his father Thomas Riddle. He wanted to purge himself from all lowly muggle connections."

"He created some kind of fiery monsters and told me to enjoy the sight of those I loved perishing then left. Dianne burned to death but when the fire touched me it went out."

Rage and self-loathing fuels my vocal cords as I roar, "He was after me. He wanted me. MY FAULT, ALL OF IT!"

Choking, angry, despairing sobs shake my thin frame as I whisper, "Why should I be the one to live then?"

She says with compassion, "Oh child, it weren't your fault."

Angrily, I try to move myself away from her, but it's impossible. My weakened muscles barely shift in her hold.

"Don't push me out." Muriel's chin rests on my head, the hairs move up and down with each of her breaths.

"If you blame anyone, it should be the one with the wand, never yourself. Blaming yourself for something, someone evil did, means you are lessening their guilt. Guilt that should be on their shoulders. You did not choose who you were born to, or who would adopt you, but that _monster_, he had a choice and he chose to kill them."

What she says almost rocks me off my feet. I can't fully accept it yet, but I can't deny the truth of it either.

After a few minutes of silence, I laugh dryly and say, "Well, I'll do that."

"Good, now you need to -"

I interrupt her and my gaze intensifies. "But only if you tell me everything you know about Wizards."

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	4. Confessions

**Okay, I officially declare my beta as being the best. Not only does she give good advice but she always responds quickly. I know I go on about her, but she really makes writing fan fiction a lot more fun because I worry less about people catching typos and all that jazz.**

**Edited Nov 23, 2014**

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Chapter Three:

Confessions

_January 20th, 1981_

_London, England_

Flurries of snowflakes flutter and delicately fall to the ground on Charring Cross Road as I wait for our contact to arrive. The voice of the only woman alive worthy of my trust prattles on, making white mist rises from her mouth when she says, "Ruby, are you sure you're ready for this? You've mostly recovered but still…"

I sigh and say, "Enough, please Muriel! There isn't anything to say that will change my mind."

She looks so desolate that I soften my tone and facial expression and continue, "It's not as though I don't appreciate what you've done for me. It was you who gave me a place to stay once I was released from Sunnybrook, it was you who became my guardian, and you, again, who supported me when the London detectives wouldn't believe the amnesia story."

Laughing sardonically, I add, "It's not like the authorities would have believed the truth either."

Her expression sobers. "I just don't want you to get in over your head."

I won't admit it, even in the solitude of my mind, but Muriel is like family now. Her concern is something precious to me. At the same time, it seems a betrayal of my family, somehow, being able to experience one bit of happiness without them.

Muriel grips the umbrella we're both under and a distant look comes over her features. "Ruby, I know you have been curious about how I know so much about the Wizarding world. I may have told you what I knew, but not _how _I knew. It's hard for me, but as painful as this information is to relate, you won't know what you're facing until you know my story."

She takes a few heavy breaths and goes on, "I've never fully trusted wizards, ever since they first approached my Nina in 1970. Oh, McGonagall, the transfiguration teacher, told such grand tales of Hogwarts and magic. It seemed too good to be true. That feeling must've been an omen of things to come"

Her voice becomes tender as she continues, "If only you could have seen her then, before that school got its hooks into her, such a fiery spirit she had. It set those hazel eyes, that her father gave her, blazing. She was a determined child with wild raven hair, blown every which way, 'cause she had to out do all the boys in the neighborhood."

Muriel half laughs, but her eyes are suspiciously watery. "She put the 'Tom' in tomboy. And the day that professor arrived… at first, I was relieved that my daughter's abilities were explainable."

Short, peppery grey hair falls into her eyes as she looks down. "The professor never told me how sending Nina to their world might affect her. Every year she came home more and more withdrawn. It only took a few years before I didn't even know her anymore, not that I didn't try."

"Then came the day when I found my lovely, my sweet baby, hanging from the end of a rope. They ruled it a suicide but I'll never believe it to be anything short of murder. I discovered Nina's diary on her bed. It explained everything. That's when I found out how _that_ world drove her to it" She let out a choked sob and clutched a chubby hand to her face, her shoulders shaking.

Profound quiet loads the minutes. Letting her gather herself, I pat her back awkwardly.

During the uncomfortable pause, a car horn honks. Some young idiot cuts some other car off, which inadvertently breaks my guardian out of her reverie.

Despair and pain dull the inner light, the light which Muriel usually projects like a beacon.

"_Mudblood_ is a racial slur that people who believe in the 'purity of blood,' or blood supremacists, call those with no magical heritage. People like my daughter."

Muriel fights for her composure, jaw clinching, as she says, "What I didn't know was that she'd been tormented from the moment she set foot in that school, both by her housemates, because of her heritage, and everyone else because she was a _Slytherin_. At first, she fought it with the fiery strength she'd been born with, but even the hottest wildfires can be extinguished over time."

My insides churn with a bond of empathy that only those who are the last of their families share. I don't even stop to think about the one living blood relation I have. _He_ had proven beyond anything else that family are those who love us, not those who share our blood.

"That society hates non-magical people, they hate anything and everything that isn't a 'pureblood' or as I like to call them _inbreeds_." Muriel grimly says, "And no one did a thing about it. Not the headmaster or the teachers, not even when a group, who called themselves 'the Marauders', were particularly vile to her."

"She was only sixteen. But I doubt they thought about that when they charmed her robes invisible and made her spend the day in her underwear, no matter how many times she changed. Or when she had to deal with the unwanted advances of her housemates afterwards because of her 'flaunting' herself."

Muriel spits and mutters a curse. Almost immediately afterwards, a look of defeat courses over her features. It is such a sad look, such a depressed look, that it doesn't suit the usually jovial woman at all. It makes me feel uncomfortable.

"Please, don't go into this thinking that just because the wizards have laws against muggle baiting or murder that they are to be trusted. I can't handle losing someone else I care about because of them. If I could, I'd carry you far away from them all. It's a terrible risk you're taking. One I rather think your family would disagree with."

I flinch at the mention of them and I can tell she regrets the reference at once. Both of us lapse, once more, into the winter stillness until it's too much. My foot plays with some gravel, and my head is down. I move myself to face away from her, resolute in not showing any vulnerabilities she could exploit. It's easy to discern that she sees her daughter in me, but I can't let that stop me, not when I'm so close to my goals.

Closing my eyes and speaking quietly, I say "You helped me when no one else could, but this is something I have to do if I am ever going to have any kind of peace or leave the past behind."

A family with two children trundling down the road passes us. The mother holding the littlest in her coat, nice and warm. An intense longing twinges in my chest but I stomp it out and continue.

"It'd be nice to say the only reason for doing this is to try to bring justice for my family. That would be a good and selfless reason, but it isn't completely true."

"I want justice for me too and the ability to sleep, without having to force the idea out of my brain that _he _might come while I'm in bed. It's the desire for a normal life, where every minute of every day I'm not seething in anger, or worrying that _he's_ doing what he did to me, to someone else. And that won't happen unless he's caught."

"I recognize the risks about what the Wizarding government will do to me once they know, I _know_. You made sure of that, at least from what little you understand of them."

My electric blue eyes become cold and sharp like shattered chips of ice.

"First," I venomously say, "My would-be murderer will find out that he failed, that he was bested by a mere _muggle_, yet regardless of the risk, it'll give me the chance to bear witness of those beasts' crimes. To show the world that fear is not something _I _will ever be led by."

Abruptly whirling back to face Muriel so she can see the conviction in my words. "You said yourself that no-one knew who the followers of _Lord_ Oldyshit were-"I make sure to put as much sarcasm as I can into my tone when I pronounce the 'Lord' part"-well, each of their faces are carved into my memory and information on the Dark Lord's past might help somehow."

Walking forward, I see my contact, a squib by the name of Arabella Figg who agreed, after hearing my story, to take us to the ministry. She and Muriel have been friends for years. For some reason, she doesn't like me very much. It might be because of my sharp intellect, since I no longer worry about fitting in and hiding it. Arabella is a woman who has more cat fur, on her clothes and around her home, than common sense.

After the usual pleasantries, we set out for the Leaky Cauldron. The place was a dump, I guess that shows how much they value muggleborns, if this is their first introduction to the Wizarding world.

The bartender gives us curious looks and says cordially to Arabella, "Haven't seen you since you came to sell your last batch of Kneazles, and that was over a year ago. How've you been?"

She replies, "Staying out of trouble mostly, Tom. Diagon Alley isn't the safest place since the last attack and…"

The longer we delay the more my irritation grows until I butt in, "And, I'm sorry but we have business that can't wait, so if we could be going on our way. Please excuse us."

Muriel struggles to hold back a guffaw with my briskness, and how the cat woman looks like she is dealing with an acute case of 'lemon in mouth' syndrome. Especially since she knows of Arabella's habit of 'chatting' for far longer than is strictly necessary.

Arabella frowns at me then turns back to Tom. "Well, I suppose we can catch up later." She then heads toward a large fireplace and quickly explains floo travel then throws in a pinch. Emerald flames burst upwards and I fight back the memories bright colors of green and fire cause me.

Much to my surprise, she sticks her head in, says something, and walks into the fireplace and states "Ministry of Magic, Auror Division. Office of Alastor Moody."

I copy Arabella and suddenly I'm moving at an incredible rate. The openings of many fire places are flying by until it stops and I end up in a heap.

The room of this Alastor is strange with mirrors that reflect only shadows. Unease settles in, maybe I'm not as ready for this as I thought. After swallowing the disorientation and confusion, being off-balance nearly causes me to fall as I get to my feet, only to discover a wand pointing at my face.

I gulp nervously, until I realize who wields it, and something snaps inside. Then Murphy's law makes an unwelcome appearance and everything hits the fan.

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**The next few chapters are were the action really begins so stay tuned and review:)**


	5. Ignition

Okay so I have to give props to my Beta, VivyPotter, for doing such an awesome job on this. Plus I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the new released album by Within Temptation especially the song _Let us Burn_. If anyone likes Evanescence they would love this group.

**Warning: To all canon lovers, there will be character death**

**Edited Nov 23, 2014**

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Chapter Four:

Ignition

_January 20__th__, 1981_

Standing in front of the hearth, is a man I never thought I'd see again, at least _outside_ of shackles, that is. All the horrors of 'that night' seem to reflect in his giddy eyes as he holds me at wand point. Yes, I know him. How could I not? His was one of the many faces that had been haunting my dreams for the past eight months.

Somehow this is a set up. My thought process accelerates. Seconds seem to span centuries. Millions of details and memories crowd my mind, all clamoring for attention, and in between heartbeats, I remember…

_Flashback_

_May 31, 1980_

Embers and ash flew everywhere. My limbs grew weary as I sought oxygen; It became hard to stop myself from slowly suffocating. The stakes that mangled my hands and feet were a stark reminder of torturous hours. Because I was only semi-conscious, my eyesight blurred and I didn't hear my sister's cries anymore. It was a small mercy, one I was not worthy of.

The basement was under construction and situated on the bottom level of an apartment complex. It was huge. I wished that my nakedness and the cold cement underneath me was the cause for the shivers that ran throughout my body, instead of my grief-stricken wails.

The most I could do was sob at my uselessness. I just wanted the fire monsters to come for me already. Maybe it had something to do with the snake man's scribbles on the nearby ground. He did want me to see my family's demise after all, so it made sense that he did something to ensure I witnessed his so-called '_greatness'._

About fifteen feet from me, Dad's remains were splayed out, like a puppet with its strings cut. His eyes held an empty stare, where once there was so much _strength_. Mom's corpse wasn't far from his, charred beyond recognition. All of her beauty, dignity, and life ripped away from her in one awful moment. Their bodies' seemed quietly reproachful and I bore the guilt for their state. The only thing that brought me any comfort was the belief that soon I'd be with them.

Hope rose cautiously in my soul, like a glimpse of sunlight after a long and freezing night, as I caught sight of a seven-year olds' small, frightened form. Dianna crawled through the hellfire, a trail of blood oozed out behind her. I couldn't believe my eyes. She must have used the time while the scaly sociopath talked to me as a distraction and escaped.

Relief flooded through me, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. At least she had a future now; I wasn't to blame for the death of _every_ person in my family.

She came to a door, opened it, looked over her shoulder, and saw me. I'd never wished so much to be invisible. Her appearance broke my heart all over again. Dianna's hair had been shaved during the 'revels' and the word _slave_ carved into her chest. I knew there wasn't a way for myself to escape, so I nodded my head, smiled in acceptance, and tried to put as much support as I could into that look.

Dianna's face grew determined. I knew that expression. It was the one she wore every time she did something I hated. When I realized what she planned, I vigorously shook my head, begged, _pleaded_, but she stayed resolute. I tried to stop her, silently mouthed for her to leave me to my fate. I wanted to shout and scream but that would have drawn attention. Despite my demands, brave, noble, _idiotic_ Dianna, dragged herself to my side. The fire fiends were gnawing away at everything around us, but didn't seem to have caught sight of her yet.

"What are you doing?" I tried to shout, but hacked on ash instead.

She replied with a little of her old spirit, "Can't have you escape cancer just to die by freaky fire…" She became quieter and barely held back the tears, "Mom and Dad wouldn't like it."

I'd never been so exasperated, nor had I ever loved my sister as much as I did in that moment. "Please, don't be stupid! Run, run faraway."

She never had time to reply. My heart filled with horror as one of the tormentor's appeared behind her, out of thin air! He must have been a guard. The man removed his mask and, with absolute confidence, introduced himself as Barty Crouch. It was then that I knew with certainty that there wouldn't be any escape, for either of us.

Each and every one of our kidnappers had the same arrogant attitude. What surprised me was his age. He didn't look much older than me. Whatever kinship I might have felt, soon died as his eyes roved over my broken figure with a leer while his tongue twitched, lizard like. It disgusted me.

Mockingly, in a sing-song voice, he said, "`Ello, didn't think we'd leave you to wonder off and get lost, now did you?"

He grabbed Dianna by the throat and dangled her off the ground. "Now, good little girls need to learn not to crawl off."

Dianna didn't take too kindly to this and dug her nails into his wrist which caused him to drop her. A small smirk graced her lips as she positioned herself protectively over me. I had never been so terrified in my entire life. _"No!"_ I screamed silently. _"Run while you still can!"_

Barty's face morphed into anger. "You little whore," he spat the words viciously then screamed "_Ossis Effergo!"_ four times in quick succession. All four of her limbs snapped, the bones jaggedly forced through the flesh. My baby sister screamed, arching her back in pain, and crumpled on top of me. Over both our screams, he shouted, "Try and crawl away now, little girl!" His lips were twisted into a sickening jeer as he watched us with what seemed like _lust._

Then he pointed his wand toward the scribbles, chanted under his breath, and, with a triumphant sneer, popped away once the symbols stopped glowing.

Abruptly the fire _things_ turned and attacked. It was like we had been invisible to them all this time.

As soon as the flames started to lick me, I felt an odd numb sensation. The same feeling I felt right before the wizards came. If I hadn't been so tormented, I might have recognized it.

When the snake man tortured Mom and Dianna, he forced me to watch from a distance. I thought nothing could be harder than that.

I was wrong.

The flames devastated my sister as she desperately clung to me. I watched every flame eat away at her flesh; heard every scream; felt every agonized spasm roll through her tiny body. I observed, frozen in horror, as her beautiful, rosy skin blackened and peeled away from the white, marble bone like… I don't even know what.

There was no comparison horrific enough to describe it. Finally, when I thought I would be trapped here forever, turning slowly insane under her dying twitches, the movements ceased. Immediately, disgusted at myself because all the while, I wasn't even able to _hold _her or give her some _measure_ of comfort. Extermination by fire was the fate of the damned, not my angel of a sister who loved me enough to walk back into the fiery clutches of hell, just on the off chance she could save her sinner of a sister.

Suddenly, the fire beings pulsed in unison. A wall of flames erupted, causing my heart to leap into my throat. The building and surrounding area were incinerated instantly. It must have been the Universe's idea of a cosmic joke, because even though I wished for it all to be over, wished to be punished, and wished for the fire to kill me along with Dianna, I lived on.

Not a hair on my head was singed as my family's bodies were reduced to ash. Not that there was much left of them to be destroyed. I could have laughed at the irony, if I had any voice left. The screams were so hard and prolonged that blood caked the inside of my throat. I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to speak again. I hoped not. Maybe that small punishment would at least atone a _little_ for my sins.

As my family's ashes settled on my skin, there I stayed, until I was discovered by a shocked Fireman.

My parents' deaths nearly killed me, but Dianna's broke me.

_End of Flashback_

_January 20th, 1981 _

I break out of my past, and look around me wildly. I half expect me and Barty to have been standing here for so long that we've rotted down into skeletons.

That's what it feels like, anyway. But it's only been a second, and Crouch is _still _here, and far healthier than he deserves to be.

A wiser person might have been anxious at this point, or at least try to run.

That person isn't me.

I'd prepared myself for fear – anguish, even – when I would face my family's killers, but I'd never believed I would've had the reaction I did to Barty Crouch Jr.

Hate; intense, overpowering, ugly, repugnant, _cloying_, stops me in my tracks. I thought I knew the level my anger could reach, but I'd been so _very _wrong.

Rather than burn away my logic in a haze of fury, I feel the rage add a cold clarity to everything. Quick, sharp, precise thoughts glint with danger, like a dagger poised for the killing blow.

Arabella is nowhere in sight. I know that Muriel could come through that hearth at any moment, so I need to work quickly. Adrenaline hums in every one of my cells. Time slows, and seconds pass like eternities.

New strategies rapidly flow through my mind, strategies which I discard just as quickly.

"_The odds aren't good. If what Muriel said about apparition is correct, then I can't let him touch me. That means no close quarters combat, not that I know anything about it anyway._" Just to add to the impossibility of the situation, the man has a significant advantage in long range battle. "_He's bigger, stronger, and has magic on his side. The only way I can possibly beat him is if I surprise him and somehow take his wand._"

I curse myself for not buying a gun when I had the chance, even if I would have had to obtain it illegally. Oh no, I had to follow stupid laws, made by stupid people, which makes it _extremely _difficult for people who have spent time in a mental institution to obtain guns legally.

Barty assumes my hesitancy is due to fear. His face fills with pleasure. The sadist pauses before he acts; thinking to increase, what he imagines to be, my sense of discomfort. Then he succumbs to a weakness _all _super-villains suffer from, gloating.

His tone of voice and body language all shout _casual_ as he inspects his nails and speaks like he was only talking about the weather, "So, thought you'd just waltz into the ministry and reveal the Dark Lord's loyal followers."

Crouch's face hardens and all pretenses of kindness evaporates. "How insane _are _you? As if a lowly muggle, waste of flesh that they are, could ever best a wizard, or fight against our cause!"

When I decide to take the initiative and attack, he shouts, _"Incarcerous!"_

There's no room to maneuver and his casting speed makes dodging impossible. Thick ropes bind my arms to my chest.

Crouch says, "Let's get out of the fireplace, like a civilized person and beast." Then he levitates me over the Auror's desk chair and slams me down into it

The menace in the air increases.

He looms over me and whispers in my ear, "Don't worry, the floo has been temporarily blocked off. No one will interrupt this private moment." Crouch's eyes lower to my chest. "Also, feel free to be as loud as you like." Leaning in closer still, his lips intentionally brush my ear and the heat from his breath causes goose bumps to cover my neck. "In fact, I'd enjoy it more if you were."

I cringe back and he laughs. Every one of his actions aims to intimidate, including the not so subtle hints of rape. Unfortunately for him, it gives the opposite effect. I'm not afraid, I'm _pissed_.

It takes everything I have not to throw up or act too soon.

Crouch caresses my cheeks and continues speaking, "The room has been spelled against annoying little eavesdroppers, those who would interrupt all the fun, and anything that might detect surges of magic here."

Since he's in such a chatty mood, why not monopolize on it? Justice can wait until _after_ some questions are answered. Widening my eyes, body quivering for effect, I whisper, "What have you done with Arabella and Auror Moody?"

He sits on the desk and absently pushes over mounds of paperwork, to make room.

"I'm afraid Moody has been out of the country for a week and isn't expected to return for another two. How convenient."

Intentionally hyperventilating, I say, "And Arabella?"

"What? Oh, the disgraceful _squib._" He almost retches at the word, as if what he's saying makes him physically _sick_. What he says next causes his face to light up with glee. "I'm afraid she's dead. Three days ago to be exact."

Crouch grins maniacally, points his wand at his face, and mutters a Latin phrase which transforms him into a perfect image of Mrs. Figg.

Speaking in her voice, he says, "Stupid muggle, didn't you know I'm _very_ good at imitating people. It's a talent which I find… useful. You wouldn't believe how many filthy muggle girls will open their door to a handsome stranger in need. Not that I couldn't force my way in easily but where would the fun be in that, especially when they realize it was there own stupidity that ensnared them."

Crocodile tears spill over my cheeks as I try to look distraught.

Once more he invades my personal space. "You'd never understand the trouble it was to bring down the wards, and every other defensive feature of this office by myself. But it was worth it! Moody has a reputation for '_Constant Vigilance'_ or, to put it perfectly, insane paranoia. That means no one would check here for a security breach."

Acting the meek little victim I whimper, "Why go through all the trouble, I'm not that important!"

"Too true pet, but your living is a stain on my honor and, more importantly, my master's."

All pretense of affection is cast aside. "Do you have any idea what I had to endure when it was discovered that you lived? Did you think that you could escape this unscathed? How pathetically naïve of you. I expected no better from a muggle slut."

Switching back to his fake persona, Crouch feigns indecision. "I don't think I'll take you to my master yet." Then in an overly dramatic manner continues, "I'm afraid, despite your being a muggle, you're entirely too tempting."

His eyes become darker along with his intentions as he begins to remove his outer robes. It's easy to see that he wants to disgrace me in every way imaginable. Some men wound the body, he's the type to go for the soul. And what he intends to do next will forever stain mine.

The menace in the environment curdles my blood and almost, _almost_ causes me fear. He continues to undress and sets his wand on the desk as he looks at me in false triumph.

The arrogant fool doesn't know it yet, but this action, and the pompous belief that a muggle has no chance against even the most inept wizard, will be his downfall.

I smirk inwardly, because I now have the answers I needed to my questions. First, if the Dark Lord knows I'm alive and secondly if Crouch was working alone. Both of which had been wonderfully answered with little to no effort on my part.

The fact that Crouch knows about me means someone Arabella confided in, from the Wizarding world, is a traitor. Another important fact is that the Ministry of Magic has been infiltrated. Especially if the Death Eaters know the comings and goings of Aurors enough to highjack their offices.

Enough's enough. The charade's over. When he takes his hand and begins to lift up my skirt I slide out a hidden dagger from my sleeve, aim, and slash. I'm beyond grateful that pudgy unassuming Muriel forced me to learn the basics of how to wield and carry daggers on my person at all times.

Unfortunately, he blocks the swipe that would have slit his throat. Blood trickles down a deep gash. The wound spans the length of his forearm.

Before he can recover, I jump up, kick the chair over, grab his wand on the desk, and dash away. In front of his disbelieving eyes, I snap it between my fingers with a satisfying crack.

Allowing a victorious smirk to cross my lips, I mock him, "You really gave it to me proper, didn't you? Tell me lover, was it good for you too?"

Crouch growls with unsuppressed rage. A spell flies towards me and on pure instinct, I roll out of the way. My stomach sinks as I see a second wand in his hand. Realizing that I won't last long at this rate, I end up throwing one of the smaller shadowy mirrors in the office at him.

He screams, "_Reducto!"_ in response_._

At the last minute my body twists away and the mirror explodes, sending shards of glass everywhere. Using the debris as a distraction, I slip out another dagger I've had hidden and aim for his heart. Praying all the while that it actually hits.

_Thwunck. _

My dagger imbeds in the wall behind him as he apparates behind me and shouts "_Expelliarmus."_ This time I can't dodge. Every weapon I have flies out of my hands. The spell's strength sends my body crashing through a large mirror.

My back is a work of art, at least to a sociopath, with long shards of glass sticking out of tender flesh. The pain is indescribable and as much as I try to move I can't. Moans fall from my lips and I'm fighting to stay conscious.

Crouch laughs and in my weak state it's as if all my other tormentors' laughter joins his.

The sound stops.

"Congratulations are in order. You're the first muggle to actually hurt me. I suppose you deserve a present for all your effort."

His face is murderous and he roars, "_Crucio!"_

There's a reason _pain_ is a four letter word but what I'm experiencing is beyond that insignificant description. I feel agony, agony that rips through every nerve, every cell, every molecule and _atom_ of my existence. The suffering that pulses through me is like molten lava and lightning, all at the same time. It makes me forget my revenge, forget my family, forget the rage. It's an agony that makes me wish there was a devil here, just so I could sell my soul to see the end of it.

What I don't know is that something that hadn't happened in the history of the earth, is happening to me at this moment.

I don't know that genes, which had previously been dormant unless certain stressors and energies were encountered, begin to fully activate. Where before, there had only been a few glimpses of this ability, now my fate is fully tied to it. Much like how the ability to manipulate magic had come into existence in ancient times, so too did this power come to be.

Far away I could hear the most horrifying screams. Whoever that poor thing is, should just be put out of their misery. Then I realize that thing is me. The torment stops as soon as it began.

The bad man is speaking but I can only understand some of it, as I spasm on the ground.

"Bitc…What di… do to me…can't move…"

I guess the muscle relaxant I coated my dangers with is kicking in. Normally I would be ecstatic, but right now the exhaustion I feel trumps anything I've ever felt, or could feel at this moment.

The tremors lessen and I sit up. It hits me that the spell I'd been under was familiar. Eerily so… Until I realize they used the same one on every member in my family. A whole new horrifying truth imprints itself on my brain.

"_My family endured this for hours when I couldn't even handle a few minutes._"

"_After only a short while, my sanity was hanging by a thread. What was theirs' like at the end of it_?"

"_If Mom or Dad didn't die, would they even have been _**sane**?"

"_Would they have been able to smile again_?"

"_Was the pain greater for them_?"

"_How many times did they pray for death_?"

"_How many others did those savages butcher_?"

At that last question I look at the fallen Crouch. Just _one_ of the monsters who ripped everything away from my family, but still the one who slaughtered my precious Dianna.

Merciless rage rushes through my veins, a siren song of vengeance and carnage, begging for release.

He's only half conscious but even in this state he feels the foreboding storm of loathing that I'm radiating. I pick up a large jagged piece of the dark mirror's glass. It slices my palm open but I don't feel it.

"Ple – plea - please spare me."

I still my movements… and say in a dead voice, "Where was your mercy for my sister, my mother, and my father?"

"Please I swear on my life, I can change!"

My reply ripples with cold conviction. "I'll tell you something now, and you'd better keep it in mind for the rest of your pitifully short life: …mercy is not for the merciless. I think both you and I know that."

His eyes widen and the shard strikes him with quick brutality, ripping through his skin like butter.

Then the door blasts open.

Two men barge in. I would later come to know them as Bartemius Crouch Sr. and Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody.


	6. Rise of the Resistance

This has been the longest chapter yet, but I loved writing every word of it.

Special thanks to my beta vivypotter and the song "Seven Nation Army" by the Glitch Mob for inspiration.

Edited Nov 23, 2014

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Chapter Five:

Rise of the Resistance

_May 31, 1981_

_High Council Room, _

_Ministry of Magic_

Muriel was right.

Wizards, even the supposedly _good_ ones, think of muggles as lesser beings. No one listened to my story when they first confined me to a jail cell. It isn't in a wizard's nature to take the word of a _muggle_ over a pureblood's.

First thing they did, when I was arrested, was put Crouch Sr. over the investigation. The man didn't like what I said about his Death Eater boy so he silenced me. The best I deal I could get was his promise that after the trial Muriel would be given her freedom. In exchange, I would cease my "baseless accusations."

I agreed, but as a punishment he had them conjure a muzzle. I'm sure that there were spells he could have used for the same effect, but he wanted to make a point.

Efficiently, systematically, methodically, steadily they chipped away at the core of my self-worth. It's well documented what prison guards given total authority, with no restrictions, can do.

Every day it was muggle dog fetch this, then pain, or muggle dog do that, then degradation. Many of the guards laughed, laughed at my disgrace, laughed at the silly muggle's vain attempts at speech, while they listed all my supposed crimes.

In the beginning I'd been scared of my apathy and the power of my hate. After those demon's, who disguise themselves as human beings, got through with me, it wasn't a problem anymore.

All my lovely little moral limiters were gone.

I promised myself if I were _ever_ given the chance, I'd rip out their laughing vocal cords.

Yet again wizards stripped and humiliated me. I can't say that my experience with Wizarding law enforcement was much different from my experience with Death Eaters. The bruises on my flesh bare testament of that

This went on until today, May 31, the day of my "trial."

A panel of prominent witches and wizards sit above me, Albus Dumbledore, Head of the Wizengamot, Millicent Bagnold, Minister for Magic, and Bartemius Crouch Sr., Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as well as various other "prominent" individuals or—if you had my knowledge of their activities—criminals.

I watch Muriel from the side of my eyes as I hobble into the Council room thanks to the _kind_ goodbye the guards gave my knees. She's in better shape than me, looking well fed and clean. Apparently the older Crouch is somewhat honest.

She doesn't have to say she was right, doesn't have to hint at it. It's just there, a cold hard fact, like the inevitability of death. The cruelest part about everything is that I'd dragged her into it, tangled her up in my life, and burdened her with too much drama.

That day on Charring Cross Road I knew I owed her, "_but _**no **_I thought I could do something to make a difference. Well, I sure did. I made everything worse. Just another failure to heap on my shoulders._"

And how do I pay back Muriel for taking me in, teaching me how to live again, and straightening out my head? She gets to be arrested, thrown into a jail cell, and face this _travesty_ of a trial as a non-existent accessory for something _I_ did. Something I didn't even plan to do. She doesn't even have the comfort of knowing they'll let her go and I can't tell her with the muzzle on.

If that isn't enough, the only reason she got caught was because she went to the ministry _herself _to get people to Moody's office. All for the sake of _saving_ me.

"_Why do people always get hurt protecting me?"_

"_Did I commit some awful sin to offend God_?"

Somehow I think I did, because it's either that explanation, or God is evil and I'd like to believe that _I _am wicked rather than _He _is.

All of this runs through my head while they chain me to a chair.

Muriel is just sitting there, watching with extreme concern and sadness. She doesn't know what's happened to me over the past few months, but she can guess.

Strangely I'm grateful for the shackles on my wrists, because they hide the self inflected slashes.

I can't even look her in the eye, too ashamed to. Don't want her to realize how much more they'd taken from me, broken me. So I alternate between staring at my shoes and tapping my index finger.

Blood drips from the wounds never allowed to heal in my scalp and back. These are compliments of my wizard guards, who cast spells on my injuries that made sure they wouldn't heal right. It's surprising I hadn't died from infection. Under the muzzle lips twitch in a macabre smile as I think, "_If I somehow manage to walk out of this alive, I'll be a moving mass of scar tissue_."

I want to be indifferent to that fact, but it adds another twist to the well of bitterness wizards are determined to force into me. Mom always said it was wrong to make sweeping judgments on an entire group of people. She said when someone does this they condemn the innocent along with the guilty.

My faith in that teaching is becoming weaker by the minute in relation to wizards. Then I catch a glimpse of one of my family's murderers.

Malfoy.

The little remaining hope in their justice system, or wizards in general, dies a horrible death with brain matter splattered all over a metaphorical crime scene.

One of _their_ murderers holds a place of power.

He sits with a mockingly neutral look on his aristocratic face. He-Who-Imitates-Bimbo-Barbie-Dolls-And-Whose-Sexuality-Is-Questionable. A triumphant sparkle beams in Malfoy's eye.

My breathing stops. The crushing disappointment is enough to drive me over the edge, if not for Muriel's need for me to honor the agreement with Crouch, then I would not have held back.

I'd consoled myself with the belief that I would tell part of my story and make sure someone would do some good with it. I should have known it was a vain, hollow hope.

The certainty that my family's murderers will not be brought to justice, even if it's the anniversary of their deaths, does not cause tears to pool in my lowered eyes, nor am I shaking in fear as I sit in rags and magical shackles.

I've learned that neither of those two options change anything. I feel oddly calm, probably the calm before the storm.

Every one of the Councilmen have similar looks of distaste over their faces, and a small number of individuals, with pity.

Nearly feral, I growl deep and gratingly, which causes more than a few to jump back in fear.

I hate pity, it's the emotion of hypocrisy. Those who feel it, rarely act on it. They think that because they can emit a _spark_ of compassion, it somehow makes them good people. Yet, these so-called _good_ people will watch as a sixteen year old is handed the equivalent of a death sentence, just because she lost control of her emotions and actions in the face of her family's murderer.

Actually, I like _Crouchety_ Senior's look the best. It's the most expressive. By "expressive," I mean hateful, but that's alright, at least he's honest with his intentions. It's understandable even, considering what I did.

Deliberately, I allow a hint of smugness to show, then ignore him dismissively. There's a certain satisfaction with making the pig froth at the mouth.

Then there's Dumbledore. Now _him,_ I loath almost to the same degree as my family's murderers. He interrogated me, made my hopes soar to impossible heights, only to let me crash and burn.

Even Voldemort wasn't that sadistic with the mind games. He made sure his victims never thought they were anything but defeated.

Dumbledore knows, he knows everything, knows about Riddle, knows that I was attacked again in Moody's office, and knows that there are mitigating circumstances on my attack of Crouch Jr.

I'd learned it by accident, from the guards, as I eavesdropped; In Wizarding law, a witch or wizard is allowed to extract recompense to any who use an unforgivable against them and, evidently, it also applied to muggles. The guards were shocked about this, so they talked and I listened.

Yet, there Dumbledore sits, with his holier-than-thou-attitude, pretending to care and execute justice.

It takes all my self-control not to show him how _beast like_ they'd made me.

I don't know why he hasn't acted on what he knows. Maybe he's prejudiced against muggles, or he's another Death Eater. But I do know that I'd rip apart his flamboyant robes, disembowel him, then spit, vomit, and piss on the remains if I could.

Dumbledore speaks, his body stiff and eyes worthlessly sympathetic, "Ruby Irene Williams, a case like this has only occurred once in the history of the Wizarding world. In the year 1060, a muggle forcibly used one with knowledge of magic to attack witches and wizards of the time. This muggle managed to kill twenty before he was finally caught and subsequently executed."

Murmurs of shock and anger ran through the crowd of councilmen.

His voice drones on, "For this reason certain laws have been made to take precedence above and even beyond the Statute of Secrecy. These ancient laws protect witches and wizards from muggle bias and aggression today, should proof of premeditated conspiracy be found."

I look each and every one of these Councilmen in the eye. "_If I'm going down, then I want them to remember that I didn't act guilty. Let them see the sincerity, let them see my innocence projected in all my glances_."

"Ruby," Dumbledore, flagrantly intimate by using my first name, continues, "for violating the Wizard Protection Act and bringing grievous bodily harm against a wizard, with conspiracy to commit murder, and for the murder of Arabella Figg, this court finds you guilty and sentences you to spend the rest of your natural life in Azkaban Prison."

I grit my teeth as my jaw nearly snaps on the muzzle. "_The only thing I regret is that the rapist didn't bleed to death_."

Barty Crouch Jr. will never be able to have children, or experience the more _pleasurable_ activities he was so fond of. Castration by pulverizing the patient's "manly" equipment, through the means of jagged glass shards—which left nothing but a mangled mess—kind of has that effect.

Add to that the special magical properties of foe glass (something I didn't know I used) and it makes it impossible for healers to do anything.

To tell the truth, I really wanted to kill him, but then when I stood over his pathetic figure, I realized that he hadn't suffered near enough, none of them had, and I needed him to rot in prison with the knowledge that I was the one to put him there.

My views, since then, had been through radical changes. Azkaban has nothing on what I intend to do to them.

Dumbledore then addresses Muriel while she seems to shrink in horror as the facts of my situation become clear.

"Muriel Lynne Walker, through the confession of Ruby Irene Williams, your innocence as an accomplice to the murder of Arabella Figg and attempted murder of Barty Crouch Jr. has been proven."

I let out a sigh of relief until I hear her giant aching sobs, she's crying all the tears I can't. Muriel shrieks, "You bloody freaks! How dare you touch her, how dare you pretend this is justice rather than prejudice-"

In an indifferent tone, Dumbledore goes on as the guards silence her. "While you've been exempted from the former charges, you have been deemed unreliable in protecting the knowledge of magic and will, therefore, be stripped of your memories of magic, magical people, and those who would use you for their own dastardly ends. In essence, you will be given a new identity to protect you from them."

He idly glances in my direction.

A deep, dark, unforgiving dread takes root in my soul. "_What he's talking about is totally erasing her mind and rebuilding all her memories. This is no different than a death sentence! Everything she is would be gone_." Paling I think, "_No, they can't take Muriel too_! _She's my light in the dark. The one thing that anchors me in the ever-growing chaos_. _Just once more, I'll be selfish, even if she might be better off without me. I won't let them!"_

It happens faster than I can react. I see it all in slow motion. Muriel's eyes hold tints of surprise, anger, and love as she gazes at me, until they dull in confusion and finally, fill with emptiness. All the memories of me or her daughter, all her love or affection, everything that made her who she was, is like it never existed. The bonds of shared experiences are gone.

It is one thing to watch someone fade from existence into death, and it's another to watch as your existence fades from theirs. But to watch it both at the same time is an abomination. Crouch Sr. and Malfoy wear identical grins.

The guards apparate her away.

I didn't get to say goodbye. Sitting here, I feel the devastation of loneliness all over again. The light is gone and the darkness in my soul rises to fill the void. I wish I could cry, and bite the inside of my cheek to try and make myself, but nothing works.

At Sunnybrook, I had to struggle to remain emotionless, but now, now all that's left of my former self is a rage so cold it burns.

I don't notice what anyone says after that. A strange thumping enters my ears, maybe it's the sound of my heart breaking into a dozen pieces.

I don't notice as my nails dig through the flesh on my palms, sending rivulets of blood splattering onto the pristine floors.

I don't notice as the enchanted shackles begin to steam and disintegrate.

I don't notice as all the Aurors tense as a black aura is felt throughout the ministry.

And lastly, I don't notice as energy pulses through my eyes, changing them from an icy blue to a deep indigo with streaks of black swirling around the irises.

It all clicks and the cold clarity is back. The other side of myself I'd packed away, the one who made a Death Eater beg for mercy. She's unfolding with eager savagery, and this time there won't be any inhibiting of my urges.

Dad told me once that the most dangerous people are those who are calm, cold, angry, and have nothing left to lose. That suits me just fine. I want to be dangerous.

The fools sit up there on high horses not knowing that while they've cast judgment over me, I've done the same to them. All of the Wizarding world will rue this day for generations to come.

There's a reason I wasn't afraid of what would happen to me, the reason I'd survived some of the nastier spells my captors threw at me. It was something I'd hidden after I'd discovered it a few days ago during my incarceration. A power that they wouldn't be able to snuff out.

"_Now that they'd taken her_," I smile with psychotic delight, "_there's no more reason to hold back_."

Black thoughts slink across my mind,"_If they do not allow me peace, then I will bring them war. A war the likes of which they can't fathom even in their worst nightmares_."

My muzzle and shackles clank as the hit the ground. It's as if every wizard is frozen in place. Like they all know instinctively that I can eliminate them out as easily as squashing a bug.

Good.

My mouth is bleeding. It gives me a rabid appearance which only makes my maniacal smile larger.

"_I'll say my peace, give my verdict, and leave them to the consequences, at least for a small while_."

My voice somehow booms throughout the chamber.

"You," the sound cracks then smooths out, "Every single one of you sits comfortable in your supposed moral _superiority_" the last word I contemptuously say with a sneer. My tone changes to something so sickly sweet, it'd kill a diabetic, "I want to thank you all. Not only have you shown yourselves to be just as kind as the Death Eaters who butchered my family, but in many ways outdone them in the cruelty department."

Dumbledore tries to speak out and I unleash a bit more of my ability. "Shut it you flaming flamingo!" He once again freezes. Seeing Dumbledore's reaction none of the Aurors dare to approach me. Each of their wands begins to crack under an invisible pressure.

The tension in the room is so thick it's tangible.

Then I snap it as my pitch rises dangerously, "I can forgive my treatment here, the incompetence, the pain caused against myself while in _lawful_ custody," A dark note creeps into speech and I spit out blood towards the guards' feet, "despite the fact that under your own laws I had every right to punish Barty Crouch Jr., a Death Eater, rapist, and murderer of my sister, who I attacked only after he held me under the Cruciatus curse."

Fuming I slam my fist into the enchanted prison chair and it explodes.

"Did it ever enter your pitifully small, pea sized brains that a normal person cannot block a floo network or cast spells of containment and silence? Does that sound like something a muggle would do? Does it sound like something an innocent wizard being attacked by a dangerous muggle would do?"

Angrily I start to stride back and forth. The aura becomes stifling for them, but I don't let up.

"And don't forget that every day I spent in jail, was a day I had to stop myself from committing suicide, or that I was starved and beaten."

I slow my pace and grind out, "All these things I could move on from…but the deliberate, diabolical, injustice pronounced on Muriel Walker's head is not."

Swooping to face them all, they wilt under the ferociousness of my gaze. My voice echoes with conviction throughout the room, "And for that you are all guilty"

Commiseratively I state, "I don't hate magic, I only hate what its misuse can do."

Some of the wizards of the council noses start to bleed as I add a little more pressure to get my point across.

My face hardens once again, "None of you deserve to use it. Your society is corrupt. Ask yourselves this question; How many humans have wizards allowed to die in front of them because of the 'Statute of Secrecy'?"

"How many millions of people die every year from diseases that are easily cured with the wave of a wand?"

"What truly disgusts me is that you have forgotten that with great power comes great responsibility. You have forgotten that, to stand by and watch as atrocities occur, when you have the capability to prevent them, is no different than openly participating in it."

"Every death you had the ability to stop, but didn't, bloodies your hands and the hands of wizards everywhere."

"Tell me, what does the Statute of Secrecy protect? Wizards from muggles, or from facing justice? Many purebloods use the widespread _forced_ ignorance as their greatest weapon. What hope does a man have of protecting his family against an unknown threat?"

My whole body stiffens as I point out, "From my jail cell I observed you wizards and the truth of the matter is you are terrified. Every day some muggle thinks up something that brings us closer and closer to equaling, and in some cases surpassing, what a wizard can do with magic."

Every one of my words reverberates with declarations of doom as I state, "The judgments will be as follows; I will see to it your Statute of Secrecy is made redundant because magic will be revealed to the world, and your corrupt government toppled. It is apparent that for too long you've had free reign and cannot be trusted to use your abilities peacefully or unchecked by the mundane governments of the world."

Underneath their shock, I can see that some begin to question while others disregard everything I say because of their beliefs, but none consider that the power which weakens them so, is coming from me.

It only raises my temper

My teeth seem to shine with malicious intent. "But first, I'm going to hunt down every Death Eater, every Voldemort sympathizer, and every bigot among you." Before I finish my last sentence my voices swells to terrifying proportions, "When I do, may God have mercy on their souls, because, I won't."

And with that, all the wands, spelled items, things that had been transfigured, and everything enchanted blows up, toppling the walls and ceiling while knocking out every witch or wizard within a half mile of the ministry.

Most of the Wizarding World believed it to be the work of Death Eaters. Those who'd been there didn't know what to make of it. They thought it couldn't possibly have been the terrifying muggle girl who caused it, after all, she was _just_ a muggle. It must have been dark magic.

Only one knew, and she'd disappeared in the rubble where many assume she died.

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**Read and Review please **


	7. Assasin's Apprentice

Sorry to all my readers for the wait. The reason this took so long is because I had way too many ideas of how this chapter could go, and it took me a while to decide how I wanted to write it. I've discovered that there is _writer's block_ and _writer's downpour_. At least with writer's block I know what to do. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Plus, thanks to my beta and I wish her a happy birthday.

Edited Nov 24, 2014

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**Chapter Six:**

**Assassin's Apprentice**

_May 31, 1981_

_Ministry Headquarters_

_8pm _

Cornelius Fudge, Junior Minister over the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, is tired. Tired of all the obliviations he had to perform on some hapless muggles when they saw the secret passages and all other Ministry Building's enchantments as they failed.

"_It's really _**very** _inconvenient_," He grumbles to himself.

Every Ministry Employee was summoned to the disaster area. The situation became so dire they sent out a call to all Wizarding citizens who were of age, knew muggle repelling charms, or obliviation. Mostly, the measures were implemented too late. Many muggles had already been there and gone before their memories could be wiped.

There has never been a breach of the Statute of Secrecy this large since 1915 when a Common Welsh Green, one of England's native dragons, had escaped the reserve and attacked a fleet of German destroyers.

Cornelius rubs his aching temples and thinks, "_The only bright side was that the muggle media hasn't been involved_… **so far**."

Ministry Headquarters is in chaos. The whole ruling body of the Wizarding government were found unconscious in the High Council Room. Revival spells of any kind had no effect.

Council members and those of prodigious families were severely injured by the debris.

Many, such as Lucius Malfoy or Albus Dumbledore, would not escape without permanent scars and disfigurements. The idea that those who were deemed so powerful by the nation, could be defeated, caused more mayhem than all the Death Eaters attacks combined.

Whatever dark magic caused this made repairing the damage impossible, unless the effects disappeared on their own.

Most horrible of all, every single ward had fallen for the same unknown reason.

Fortunately, the cave-in and destruction was mainly confined to the High Council Room, so when his replacement came, Cornelius decided to head back to his Office. "_I've done my stint and, Ministerial Order or not, there would be tea and then, blessedly, a cushy bed at home_."

Merlin knows, he feels he deserves it.

As Fudge steps outside the elevators and turns the corner, he believes he sees flashes of red hair and a robed figure rush past him towards the emergency stairs, but when he looks again, they're gone.

Chuckling to himself over the absurdity. _"Like any wizard would use the stairs. Blasted muggle lovers and mudbloods with their nonsensical ideas for 'emergency contingencies.' _Pompously he rolls his eyes. _"As if the floo networks would ever be disrupted and apparition made impossible. Talk about a foolish waste of resources. Those funds would be _much_ better spent on a good party. Maybe that wonderful Firewhisky you can get imported." _

Shaking his head, he continues on his way.

_June 2, 1981_

_4 am_

"_It seems my destiny is to fall before the darkness_."

My body has collapsed.

The desire to laugh is nearly impossible to deny. Mad mirthless giggles are working their way up my raw throat and out of feverish lips. It's absolutely hilarious! "_I won, I pulled one over all the supposedly _**greatest** _witches and wizards in the whole freakin' world._ _But, by winning I am closer to defeat than ever before_."

I'd call for help if my throat wasn't so swollen.

The freedom so hard sought and at such a steep price is a joke. Here I am; with layers of filth clinging to every inch of my body, the rain pouring down, it's the middle of the night and—thanks to the strong winds and the storm—I'm freezing.

Then come the self-recriminations.

"_I lost another mother_."

"_I put myself through hell to save her_."

"_It wasn't enough_."

"_It's _**never**_ enough."_

When someone you love passes on, they take a piece of your soul with them. Mine is in tatters. I might not even _have_ one anymore, considering all of my losses. I'm not sure I can be classified as a human either, because a human isn't stuck in a void. It's beyond heartache, loneliness, or grief. It's more like total devastation.

Within my minds eye are Muriel's trusting ways, the smell of her cooking, and how she would force me to watch the news. Then she'd turn off the volume and make up the most outrageous things, either mocking the news anchors or creating insane news stories. The way she used to hug me and how, sliver by sliver, the pain decreased to bearable levels.

Memories like these make the hole in my soul stretch and gape to terrifying depths as I lie in an alleyway.

The worst part is, I can't seem to _grieve_ properly. Instead of feeling sad at her loss, all I can feel is anger, all-consuming _fury_. I look up into the storm with hazy eyes. Just like my body, I'm numb.

This is why night is the worst time. I fear the darkness, not because of cowardice, but because the deafening quiet forces me to face myself.

And I'm my own worst enemy; my most paralyzing demon.

I've come to the logical decision that _never _again will I allow anyone to get close enough to hurt me. _"Another loss will... never mind, not going to even think about it."_

The smell of rot fills my nose, jolting me out of my musings, and I have to fight down the rising bile. Maybe hiding behind a restaurant's trash can isn't the best idea I've had so far, but my survival demands I stay out of sight. There is no way I would let _them_ take me again.

… Alive, at least.

Food became my main concern after the escape from the ministry. The only thing I'd managed to scrounge that was remotely edible, was dried out rolls. Let's just say my small stomach didn't agree with those at all.

This is the worst state I've ever been in. The wounds on my back are swollen and hot to the touch, and I'm terrified that they might be infected. I try to move, but I can barely lift a finger. It's not surprising, given the fact that I dug myself out of the rubble of the Ministry, and ran more miles than can be counted. I've almost no idea where I am.

Vaguely, I recall a sign reading Brixton something, but the information slips through the ever widening cracks of my mind. Every sound makes me flinch or jump, the fever and paranoia aren't helping. Yep, the nerves have definitely seen better days.

My thoughts drift over what I did to the ministry. When I blew up the trial room, I didn't expect the results to be so powerful. This gives me a huge advantage over my enemies and if I survive this night, I'll make sure to use it to the fullest extent.

For the first time, I allow myself to feel a bit of satisfaction. Some may wonder why I didn't kill Lucius then, or as I had recently dubbed him, Barbie. Well, the first, and most important, reason is the rubble got in the way. The second is, I don't plan on _just_ killing him.

He deserves so much more than that.

First, I will take away everything he cares about. If it's wealth I'll steal it. If it's family I'll make them despise him. I'll rip his life apart, demolish his pride, and make him suffer until he's completely broken. I'll tear him down brick by brick. Then, and _only_ then, will I allow myself to take his life.

Same goes for the rest of the Death Eaters.

Still, knowing that Lucy-boy's good looks are all kinds of disgusting right now, gives me a little gratification.

The battle to stay conscious is practically a lost cause, and just as my vision is darkening, I hear sounds of a scuffle, whimpers, and then three strange whistling noises.

Five men, in cheap suits, walk out of a door connected to the alley. Two of them carrying a body in their arms. The corpse is that of a youngish man probably in his late twenties with a bullet hole decorating his head, blood oozing out of the hole sickeningly.

Once again I'm a witness to a horrific crime. And once again, helpless to do anything. "_Story of my life_," I think bitterly.

Idly, I toy with the thought of calling the police and reporting this. I bat the stupidity aside. "_If I try anything then I'm dead for sure_. _Magic, I can stop, but bullets are another matter. Why make more enemies? The guy's dead anyway, I can't help him._"

_"It's a hard lesson to learn but those in power will always prey on the weak. These men will get away with this, unless they're caught, and I am going to let them. Not my business. Besides, for all I know, the dead man could have deserved it."_

A pressure builds in my chest. I close my eyes and try to push away the guilt, turning away from the scene. Regret from this situation echoes and resonates with the guilt from my past choices.

Savagely, within the confines of my soul, I take my conscience and slam it into oblivion. I've already realized that none of it was my fault, not my family's deaths, nor Muriel's fate, even if it feels like a lie. Muriel was right. By taking any of the blame, I am either justifying their actions or lessening their guilt.

_"I'll get justice for her too, even if she doesn't know she needs justice. One more name for my list. To do this, I need to survive. That doesn't include jumping into situations that don't concern me."_

The voice of my conscience, sounding suspiciously like my mother, points out that what happened to my family and Muriel wasn't my fault, but not reporting this _would be_.

Internally I argue that my responsibility is only to myself. "_My safety, my happiness, my survival, and my _**anything**_ and _**everything**_, is on my shoulders because no one looks after you. In the end everyone walks alone. Is this selfish? Yes, but it's the way of the world. I learned long ago that I don't have what it takes to bear the title of _**hero**_._"

No way will I get involved.

I hold my breath as the footsteps are nearly past me.

Then, like usual, fate steps in and screws me over. A cat, and funnily enough a _black_ cat, pounces on a trash can's lid and the whole thing tumbles over. This might not have been problem, if the cat hadn't knocked over one of the smaller trash cans that just happens to hide me from the men's sight.

Tensing, I jerk away only to fall weakly to the ground again.

Before I can even string two thoughts together, the trash bins are thrust aside and I'm being pinned to a wall by my throat, with feet dangling six inches from the ground. The pain explodes in my back and lights are flashing in my eyes. He must have rattled my brain with that last shove.

Brown curly hair, grey eyes, the guy's nondescript, like that boy who you say hi to in school but can never remember his name. I can see there isn't a bit of emotion in him. This is just a job and I'm in the way.

It's bizarre how the human mind works. I should feel panic, fear, or anger, but all I dredge up is slight curiosity, depressive listlessness, and wonder at how he doesn't _seem_ like a murderer.

My bleeding hands don't even try to remove the grip from my throat. The dizziness from lack of oxygen is becoming a real problem, but I don't have the strength to put up much of a fight so I let my body go limp. Fever and lack of air muddle my brain.

_"Floating away, that's what I'm doing."_ And I wonder why I even thought that I could fight anyway. Hopelessness, it's something I'm becoming use to. He's strong, so much stronger than me. His hand feels like a vice around my neck. They have guns and make it their occupation to kill. From the start, I never had a chance. The odds were always stacked against me, it's nothing new.

In a brisk monotone voice, he says, "Boss, we got a witness. Looks like a stoner." Of course he came to that conclusion with my lack of resistance and glassy eyed stare.

An older man, who doesn't even glance my way as he brushes past us, says, "Handle it." Like I'm a non-entity, a waste of space, or a scuff mark on his shoe, mildly annoying but not important.

It's the dismissal that bothers me. Under all my apathy something ignites, but I snuff it out. _"Fighting wouldn't do me any good, save maybe more pain before they take me out."_

I'm going to die and he's looking at me like a pest. The same look a bimbo sends a broken nail. Lazily, he unholsters a gun. Seconds, that's all I have left.

My head lulls to the side and I catch a glimpse of what's behind Mr. Strongarm. Seems I've got a knack for nicknames, anyway, at least the storm has stopped and I can see clearly.

Horror rises, freezes me in place, and I can't suppress it.

Retching noises fill my throat but nothing comes up.

There's a pregnant woman, and two toddlers. All with a bullet hole in their heads. One of the toddlers has brown hair. The pregnant woman's face still has traces of tears.

It's a hit on an entire family.

An entire _family_!

Not simply some man that may or may not have deserved his fate. Not some addict or gangster but a father, mother and twin girls.

_"The twinlets will never know what it means to have their first crush or go to school. They'll never marry and have children of their own. They wouldn't total their first cars at sixteen or have a wild teenage rebellious phase. The parents wouldn't get to experience that either."_

"_All of that was stolen from them, just like_ **Dianna**. _Just like my parents_."

It's too easy to see the parallels between this family and mine. I can imagine what this family's fate must have been. A father who begs for his wife and children to be let go, a mother's pain, kids forced to watch as their father is tortured. And on closer inspection he does look tortured.

The thugs throw the bodies in the back of a van with no more concern than a sack of potatoes and slam the doors shut.

I think, "_Arrogance, so much arrogance_," and bite my bottom lip hard enough that it bleeds. They strut around like they own the street. Probably because they do.

My apathy vanishes before it can fully form.

Reality snaps back into place. A quitter isn't who I am. I didn't survive Voldemort, his Death Eaters, and the Magical Government just to die now in a filthy alley. Steel hardens my soul. The only thing left tying me to this world is hate, vengeance, and a call for blood.

Whatever hesitancy and slight unease I had is no longer a problem. Superimposed over each of these thugs is the image of Death Eaters.

All I can think about is making them _suffer _but since _they're_ not here, why not take advantage of the next best thing? These thugs may not be Death Eaters but they seem close enough.

I become reacquainted with an old friend, rage. It bubbles up, drenches the senses, boils in the belly and then, finally, like a switch turns on, there's the adrenaline.

Strength enters my muscles and they start to twitch.

There isn't any weapons on me.

This is probably the stupidest thing I'll ever do since I'm very likely to die in the next few minutes.

Yet, the grin won't come off my face because _none_ of it matters.

Almost cackling in vicious amusement, I use the wall as leverage and slam my knee into the thug's balls. A stray thought almost makes me cackle _"Ironic how this is the second time in a year I've made a man sing soprano."_

_"Wow, either I must really hate men, or well, I don't know why I instinctively go for the balls first. Female nature perhaps?"_

Surprise flutters over his grim expression. I'm actually happy mud is covering me because it'll be that much easier to wiggle out of his grip.

When he drops me, the weight shift makes him stumble a bit and I tackle him. Fighting like a wildcat I scratch, bite, and wrestle him for the gun. I even go for the eyes but nothing I do phases him. Not a talkative chap this thug, which makes goading him into a mistake that much harder.

The other men are laughing. They don't see me as a threat. That's okay they'll learn.

He rally's himself and once again I'm being pinned, with him on top.

They catcall, "Hey, gonna let some druggie get you Marv, or are you so desperate any woman will do?"

His associates having attitudes like _that _means Marv must not be very popular.

_"Why is there always laughter? Do all murderers need to laugh in the face of their victims? Is it murderer code 101?"_

_"They really shouldn't do that, because it's all 'fun and games' until everything goes…"_

_Boom! _

A gunshot bursts through the night and I watch as all the lovely little strands of hair, lumps of brain matter, and bits of Marv's scalp splatter across the cement. I don't have time to ponder the ramifications of taking a life. Almost losing my grip on the gun, I roll him over for use as a meat shield and wait for the on coming bullets.

Then wait.

Wait.

And wait some more.

Working up the nerve I peek over Marv's lifeless body.

Under the moonlight with hair floating like a silvery halo in the wind and standing over four headless bodies is a middle aged man. With a feline grace he sheaths a katana.

There's an atmosphere around him I've never felt. Languidly, he saunters over in my direction, his feet making zero sound. This isn't like Voldemort, or even the dead men around me. No, he's out of their league and much more dangerous. Knowledge, primal knowledge, fills me and I know—down to the core of my very being—that I'm in the presence of a true predator.

Automatically, I back up. All of my instincts are screaming at me to avoid him or run yelling bloody murder.

A black leather trench coat fades into the darkness around him.

When he's twenty feet away from me, I begin to pant.

Fifteen feet away, my heart feels like it's going to explode.

Ten feet and my body is shaking harder than it did after the Cruciatus curse.

Then there isn't anywhere else to run and tears, I thought I wouldn't shed again, pour out of my eyes from the sheer fear coursing through me.

He examines Marv's body and then turns startlingly dark eyes in my direction. Speaking barely above a whisper in a rich baritone he asks, "Did you do this?"

All I can do is nod quickly. The idea of lying to him, even though I'm very good at lying in general, makes me want to curl up in the deepest darkest hole in existence.

In a sober tone, he states, "I have need of an apprentice."

The man's eyes pierce me, giving me a weighing look.

"You'll do."

Turning around, he says over his shoulder, "Come," and pauses when he sees I'm not following.

Slack jawing, eyes large, my mind shuts down and I faint.

* * *

**Okay, for those of you who are anxiously waiting for interaction with Harry, watch out for the next chapter and I warn you, there will be a bit of a time skip. **


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